Summer road trips are a rite of passage

There's nothing quite like a summer road trip to bring families together, open your eyes to the great American landscape, and make you possibly want to give away your children.

Last week, I almost handed mine over to construction workers repairing a bridge on Interstate 40, just outside Nashville. We were stopped — completely stopped, and not for the first time — for nearly an hour, and I was enjoying the beleaguered wheeze of our car's air conditioner and my 13-month-old's wailing alongside my 4-year-old's repeated requests for more snacks. In the background, Disney music bopped cheerily out of the CD player.

I love Disney music, I really do. But there are only so many times a woman can hear "Under the Sea" from "The Little Mermaid" without wanting to jump ship.

We'd been sitting there for a while, so I had time to study the scene. The construction workers looked safe: There were plenty of hard hats and several water thermoses. Everything looked strapped in nice and tight, so no one would fall off the bridge. I had snacks, juice boxes and sunscreen to share. My kids would've been fine.

Road trips weren't always like this for me. Used to be, I'd get a wild hair, toss a duffel bag containing the essentials into the back of my car, load up my dog, Scout, plenty of water for us both, and a carefully curated stack of CDs. I'd make sure I had road maps, trail runners, cowboy hat and a pair of flip-flops. And that was it.

We'd take to the open road, Scout and me. She'd perch on the back seat, her front paws on either side of the center console, her ears and my hair flapping in the wind from the open windows. We'd blast our music, and I'd sing along at the top of my lungs.

When we added my husband, he sometimes took over driving, but that's all that changed. That, and the fact that sports talk radio was reluctantly added to our playlist. (Scout and I generally preferred a mix of Dolly Parton, U2 and Otis Redding.)

The general nature of the summer road trip has certainly evolved over the course of my life. When I was a kid, we always had a station wagon, and it always had a name. Our station wagons were, in order of appearance through the years: Rosie (she was big, red and reliable), Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the Purple People Eater and the Gris-Mobile (named in honor of the Griswold family of "National Lampoon's Vacation").

Each station wagon had its perks. Folded down, Rosie's back seat was so big we could pack in a cooler (full of grapes, cheese slices and Capri Suns) plus my sister, my cousins, me and our unfurled sleeping bags. The Gris-Mobile was particularly stylish, with navy blue leather seats, wood-paneled sides, a sun roof so huge it took over half the roof, not to mention the ability to fit about 10 people inside. (The last two qualities I particularly appreciated when I took it to college senior year.)

On family road trips, we played a myriad of games, including "I Spy," "Dog on a Porch," and the "Cow Game." The "Cow Game" consisted of the car being divided into teams down the middle. Each side counted all the cows it passed, and whoever ended up at the final destination with the most cows won. When you passed a bank, you could bank your cows. However, if you passed a graveyard, your cows were doomed. Sometimes, my dad would pick a particular route just because he knew there would be more cows on his side.

Today, drive down a summer highway and you'll see tiny squares of light being emitted from minivan after SUV after minivan — the glow, of course, of the cars' DVD players. We still don't have one, and I can't imagine what it would be like. As a kid, I read books in the backseat until dusk made it impossible to see. Then, I got my flashlight.

My parents told stories; we listened to music, did crossword puzzles, and wrote down the states from the tags of each car we passed, hoping to collect all 50.

Don't get me wrong: I could've used a DVD player on I-40 last week, stuck in construction outside of Knoxville, Nashville and — oh yeah — Memphis, too. When you're in dire road-trip straits — like, say, trapped in completely stopped traffic in 90-degree heat and contemplating giving away your children — a DVD player can be the answer to road-trip prayers.

But the summer road trip is a glorious thing. So until then, I'm going to listen as my baby giggles while her big sister makes funny face after funny face at her in the back seat, pass my 4-year-old a never-ending number of books and snacks, play a little "Cow Game," and yes — sing some Disney music at the top of my lungs.

Katherine Scott Crawford is a novelist, adjunct college professor, mom and hiker who lives in Brevard, N.C. Contact her at thewritingscott@gmail.com.